


37 + 63 = 100

by blindbatalex



Series: tumbling pucks [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, months and months worth of drabbles from tumblr, tagged and indexed for your convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-06-15 15:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15416427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: bergy/marchy drabbles and prompt fills from tumblrCh1: fluff + "I don't care if you are 4 or 40 you just don't hit people"Ch2: fluff + "did you make that noise" aka snippet of the ghost auCh3: fluff + of suspensions and cuddlesCh4: angst + "I think you should leave" aka protective!bergyCh5: fluff + "can you stop kicking me?" aka bergy has a pimple and brad really wants to pop itCh6: fluff + the perfect date in the public gardens aka snippet of the mob auCh7: angst + of trades, home, and goodbyesCh8: fluff + things you said with too many miles between us aka snippet of hunting trip fic!!!Ch9: fluff + things you said when we were the happiest we ever wereCh10: fluff + things you said after you kissed me





	1. fluff + I don’t care if you are 4 or 40, you don’t hit people

**Author's Note:**

> It honestly makes my day when people come to my inbox to yell about fic and or give me prompts so please come and do that! I'm at @blindbatalex. 
> 
> And please let me know if you like these or if there is anything you'd like to see more of. Comments really are my life blood.<3

“What was it you told me?” Brad asks. “Repeatedly.” He goes for smug as he dabs antiseptic onto the cut above Patrice’s eyebrow. “I don’t care if you are 4 or 40, you don’t hit people.” 

It comes easy to him, the tone, the smirk, the mischief he works into his voice. Do anything enough times and it becomes second nature. “Now how does starting a bar fight square up with that, St. Patrice?”

Patrice glowers at him from where he is sitting on Brad’s sofa, his jaw clenched, his breathing still a bit hard, sporting the beginnings of a black eye and two small cuts. 

“You were just waiting to spring that on me weren’t you?”

“Didn’t have to wait long, just a few years.” Brad grins. “But I don’t know man - what comes next now that St. Patrice has been in a bar fight? A plague of locusts? The four horsemen of the apocalypse?”

It’s so unlike Patrice to start a fight on the ice let alone in a bar on a Saturday night that Brad thought he’d been assaulted or robbed when he opened the door to find him standing there, bruised and bleeding.

“For the love of God don’t call me that.” Patrice shoots back. He sounds tired.

Even as he pops the Rocky DVD in - inspiration in case you want to change careers, he tells Patrice - and settles next to him part of Brad wonders–

– _he could have needed stitches, he could have broken something he could have been actually hurt been in the hospital and what then_ –

–is this what it’s like for Patrice, dealing with Brad year in year out?


	2. fluff + did you make that noise?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [in universe ghost fic set in the future. vague references to character deaths.]

Rumor has it that the old TD Garden is haunted. According to some it’s the spirit of a fan whose heart gave out at a particularly stressful game, forever railing at his team to pull it together. Others say it’s a player of old, a small mean man who gave his all to Boston once, a long time ago, only to be cast aside and killed in an accident and he haunts his old stomping grounds now, dejected. Some say it’s a poltergeist.

Most of the rumors are of course, horse shit. Brad will let you know that (a) Torey was always the smallest one and (b) he is not dejected, or bitter or hurt, thank you very much - not for the last decade or so anyway - not since Patrice showed up one day, stood among the broken sideboards and the chipping paint and rushed into Brad's open arms like so many times they had done so in life. 

Though Brad would love to be a poltergeist. 

“Oooooooh,” he says now in his deepest voice and rankles some of the sideboards. The kids still where they are and go slightly green in the face. “D..did you make that noise?” one says to the other in a hushed whisper.

Pah. He hasn’t even shot pucks at them or shook the ground or anything yet. And these are supposed to be Bruins prospects, for fuck’s sake.

The entire area is abandoned by the way, its red brick buildings boarded up, trains rusting belly deep in water.

Centuries Bostonians spent building train stations and houses and hockey rinks on the land they stole from the sea and one day the sea decided she wanted back what’s rightfully hers.

(At least that’s what they say to add some sense of poetic gloom to it. Sounds better than we fucked up the climate so good and so long we now have to play hockey in Newton.)

Still people sneak in, past the boarded gates, wading ankle deep in the stagnant water that covers what once used to be the platform of North Station, some for adventure, others like these two idiots to find some grand inspiration or strength.

It’s all Patrice’s fault really. They wouldn’t have dared when Brad was the only ghost haunting these grounds. People had more respect in those days.

He takes out the pucks. It’s been a while since he had live targets for shooting practice. This ought to be good.

A voice stops him before he can take a swing.

“Marchy.”

Brad turns around and rolls his eyes. “What.”

Patrice pulls off that look of ‘we both know you can do better’ too well for someone who has been dead for decades. Brad hates it. He already knows how this argument is going to end.

“You are not using those rookies for target practice. We talked about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very much so an open AU I am hoping to write more about. see [here](https://michael-carricks.tumblr.com/post/175950013956/i-would-do-anything-to-read-more-of-your-brad) for more headcannons. thoughts, ideas, stuff you want to see are very much so welcome!


	3. fluff + of suspensions and cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brad was VERY unfairly suspended and I had feelings.

Brad opens the door as softly as he can and relief washes over him when he sees that it’s quiet and dark inside Patrice’s hotel room.

It’s not the most noble act maybe - to avoid your partner from the moment you hang up the phone with the Department of Player Safety up until, well, now - but his own bed is cold and vast and not at all suitable for falling asleep.

He tiptoes to the bed, using the light of his phone to guide the way. Patrice is sprawled across the bed, his head resting on the pillow on Brad’s side, sound asleep.

Brad tucks in next to him, trying to make space for himself without disturbing Patrice. He will talk to Patrice in the morning, apologize and deal with what comes next. For now he just wants to sleep and sleep here where he belongs.

He fails though because Patrice takes a deep breath and stirs.

“Is that you?” he murmurs. Before Brad can answer there is a heavy arm and a leg wrapping around him, enveloping him like a particularly heavy and warm sea creature would its prey. 

If it was trying to kill its prey by smooshing it with sleepy affection. 

Okay that’s weird and Brad isn’t following that line of thought any further.

“Sorry,” he says softly. Warmth mingles in his chest with relief and guilt. His voice comes out muffled seeing as Patrice’s neck is squished onto his face. “I didn’t mean to–“

_Wake you._

_Let you down - again._

_Be a massive disappointment._

“No.” Patrice makes a displeased sound, amplified by the proximity of his vocal chords to Brad’s face, and cuts Brad off. His hand tries to find Brad’s, and ends up somewhere on Brad’s thigh instead. “Fuck the NHL.”

His voice is slurred with sleep - he is barely even awake - and it’s still a fierce thing, as if he is ready to single-handedly fight the league on Brad’s behalf. Brad snorts - it’s the only thing he can do.

“Don’t laugh,” Patrice drawls in French and it dissolves into a soft whisper by the end. “I love you.”

Brad closes his eyes. He buries a hand in Patrice’s short hair. “I love you too,” he whispers back and it comes out a little choked up - not that there is anyone there to stand witness.

He’ll have to move eventually, gently scoot Patrice away if he is to be able to breathe freely. But he stays just where he is for now, half crushed under Patrice’s weight, surrounded by his altogether too familiar scent and warmth, loved.


	4. angst + i think you should leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hahahah turns out i have a lot of feelings when Brad gets himself suspended -_-

“I think you should leave.”

Patrice keeps his eyes firmly on his uncle. He sees the moment it hits him, watches disbelief give way to anger on his creased face. He doesn’t say anything or look away until his uncle finally gets up, and with an indignant scrape of his chair on the floor, walks away.

“You didn’t have to do that,” someone says next to him and Brad registers as a participant in the conversation along with the rest of the outside world.

It’s loud in the restaurant, Patrice realizes. The chatter of the lunch crowd mixes in with the music blasting from the speakers and the poor lighting of the place accentuates the dreariness of the day outside - makes Patrice want to drop everything and run out to the street right now, the bitter wind be damned.

He hates how quiet Brad’s voice is, how Brad isn’t really looking at him, his eye lingering on the patterns of the table cloth instead.

“I love you,” he replies, trying hard to keep the frustration that has been building since the start of the lunch out of his voice. “Of course I am going to defend you like that.”

Brad doesn’t say anything immediately though he looks like he is going to. 

Patrice knows him all too well to miss it -

His eyes widen just so at Patrice’s words with surprise and Patrice wants to find the nearest pane of glass and smash it to smithereens.

Is it the part where he said he loves Brad that’s unexpected, when he has said it over and over again at every opportunity or that he will choose Brad over a relative when the latter thinks himself subtle as he strings one derogatory comment after the other?

 _Was it that hard for you to stand up for yourself when you spend ninety percent of your waking hours chirping one person or another,_ Patrice wants to say. _Was it that hard for you to keep your goddamn elbow close to your body, and deny the idiots the ammunition just this once. Right when the team needed you. Right when I needed you._

“Where would I be without my knight in shining armor,” Brad says finally, flashing a grin that falters and fades.

Patrice decides-

He will have to shout at Brad later, when he has calmed down and isn’t at the risk of saying something stupid. Shout until he has driven every notion that Patrice deserves better than him out of his thick, stupid head.

Until he knows without the shadow of a smallest doubt just how much he is loved and just who Patrice will fight if they dare hurt him.

Brad needs to know.


	5. fluff + can you stop kicking me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrice has a pimple and Brad really wants to pop it

“Can you stop kicking me?” Patrice asks, keeping his eyes resolutely on the TV. Brad calls it ‘lovingly poking you with my foot’ but loving or no Patrice is pretty sure there is a bruise on his shin by now if not a couple.

“Let me pop it, just let me pop it, nothing bad will happen, I swear!” Brad replies like he hasn’t even heard Patrice. He doesn’t stop kicking. Neither does he stop circling the pimple on Patrice’s temple he has had his eyes on ever since they sat down.

Patrice tells him, for the fifth time that night, that the answer is no. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know how Brad’s face melts into a pout. He sometimes wishes that they found each other sooner too but by heavens he might have murdered Brad if he knew him as a teenager if tonight is any indication.

“You are missing the point,” Brad says, put off. “Why would I be interested in popping your pimples when I had plenty of my own?”

“Why would you be interested in popping my pimples, period?”

Patrice gets up. The episode is a replay he has seen anyway and it’s not like he has been able to pay attention with Brad hanging onto his side on a mission.

Brad makes eyes at him from the couch like he is a puppy that has been kicked, tells him he is only ‘this way’ towards the people he loves the most.

“Then love me a little less! I am going to bed.” Patrice says. As he walks away he focuses on his bruised shin and how annoyed he is, and has to carefully stomp down on the part that wants to ruffle Brad’s hair and tell him he can have anything that he wants if it will erase that hurt look from his face.


	6. fluff + mob au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> snippet from mob au where patrice is a doctor brad is a mobster and they have to work together to stop an organ donation crime rink at patrice's hospital!! someone needs to force me into writing the actual fic.

Patrice expects something to go wrong or at least for something to happen. Any moment now the hospital is going to ring for him, or Chara is going to ring for Brad for some “urgent business” to attend to, or Chara is going to ring for Brad and ask him to bring Patrice over because someone got food poisoning from eating three days old sushi again. There may be Canadiens looming around. It’s broad daylight now, and they are surrounded by civilians but all it takes is a gun sticking from a coat pocket and a quiet order to follow along or else. He has seen it happen once after all, first hand.

And yet.

By some miracle nothing does.

Their phones stay quiet and the most danger they face is from a toddler charging headfirst in their direction. She crashes into Brad’s legs at full speed and it sends Brad’s ice cream flying when Brad leans down to catch her on instinct.

After the parents rush to the scene and leave with their kid and apologies they eye the ice cream cone now splattered headfirst against the concrete.

“Deserved a better life,” Brad says somberly, “but we will remember his sacrifice.”

“Your ice cream is a he?”

“Was,” Brad sighs.

He is pouting a little, which Patrice discovered is an incredible look on him a while ago. So he lets Brad pout just a little longer as a pair of ducks come over to inspect the remains.

When he has had his fill, he nudges Brad gently on the arm. “Guess we will just have to share mine then.”

Immediately Brad’s face breaks into a delighted grin. “Really?” he says, “I mean - you don’t mind?”

Patrice hands him the cone, reminds him that they are on a date. Brad manages to grin even wider at that; Patrice isn’t sure how but oh it is such a good look on him, drenched as he is in the afternoon sun and framed by the flowerbeds in the background that he really cannot bring himself to care either.

It’s Sunday, they are together and for once - free.


	7. (trade) angst + goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Left the vagabonds a trail of stones forward to find my way home. Now as the air grows cold, the trees unfolds, and I am lost and not found ||[vagabond - beirut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LY70ZseceYA)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably my favorite drabble in this series.

It’s a cold night - exactly what you would expect from Boston in January. The wind stings his eyes and his nose is runny with the cold. His hands have gone more than a little numb. A red light blinks over the water on the far side of the harbor - on and off, on and off. A plane takes off in the airport. The sound pierces the night before it fades away.

Brad never meant to fall in love with Patrice, and most certainly not with Boston. He was there to play hockey; the city gave him a small shot at doing what he always wanted to do and he clung to it with both hands, gave it his best. If he grew fond of the quiet of the Waterfront in the mornings, or the red brick sidewalks of Newbury Street and if he managed to get them lost, repeatedly, bragging to Patrice about how good he was at finding his way without GPS- he thought he knew it was just a gig, temporary, that everything in hockey was.

He doesn’t hear Patrice come up until he is standing right behind him. “What are you thinking about?” Patrice asks as he settles next to Brad, dangles his feet from the ledge.

Brad sniffles. “The seabirds right. I’m thinking what would happen if I managed to catch one with my bare hands and wanted to eat it?”

Patrice snorts at that. But it’s weak and dies out in the frozen night air almost as soon as it leaves his throat.

“Yeah, would someone like call the cops if they saw me walking home with a slain seagull? Or what if the seagull came to me for help and I was trying to save its life but it died. Could I eat it then?”

Patrice takes one of his hands in his own, rubs at it to bring some life back to it. It helps Patrice, when he can take care of people and Brad won’t deny him that. He doesn’t dignify Brad’s question with an answer, just tells him that they will make it work.

“What, the seagull stew?” Brad asks, just to be an ass. The first time he kissed Patrice was here, on this ledge. He had planned the whole thing, booked the rooftop for a week so he could find the night with the perfect weather and not get interrupted, and it had started raining on them five seconds after they started kissing anyway. Not that they minded, then, caught up as they were in each other in every sense of the word.

“Ew, no.” Patrice swats at his arm. Brad knows what he is going to say next and wishes that he wouldn’t. His roof deck has always felt like it existed outside of time. Feels like as long as he keeps sitting here, half-frozen and still, there is no suitcase looming in their bedroom that he is somehow supposed to fit his life into. No goodbyes he doesn’t know how to make.

“Long distance. Us. We will make it work.”

There is so much faith in Patrice’s words. Like he can make them true by the sheer force of his will. It’s one of the reasons Brad had fallen in love with him in the first place, actually. He squeezes Patrice’s hand and smiles at him. 

He tries anyway. 

“Come on, let’s go inside,” he says, “it’s freezing out here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brad is clearly using the seagull thing to deflect but also it's a genuine question i have been wondering for the past 5 years or so. also can one make seagull stew?


	8. fluff + things you said with too many miles between us

There is a bird of prey in the tree right outside Patrice’s window. She is perched on a branch at eye level, perfectly still among the lush green leaves. The branch and her majestic brown feathers shake in the wind that is unusually strong for a summer day. Patrice noticed her midway through the call, slowly walked over to the window, and has been watching ever since.

“…pretty up here,” Brad is saying on the other end of the line, “you would like it.”

His voice is relaxed in a way only offseason allows it to be, warm like an afternoon on the beach. It’s been a couple of weeks since they talked, not a long time by any means and they have been texting, but Patrice finds himself leaning into his cell phone nonetheless. He thinks about that first day in May when it almost felt like summer - the way he stepped into the sun, closed his eyes, and let it wash over him.

“Besides, it’s been two years - _two_ \- since you very publicly told the Globe you would consider my offer and you are yet to live up to it.”

‘Do you know where else is really pretty in the summer?” Patrice retorts, “Quebec. We could enjoy the nature, go fishing, and wouldn’t have to murder innocent magnificent animals at it either.”

Brad snorts. Patrice can almost see him throwing his head back, his sarcastic smirk.

“And your fish lead a life of sin do they?”

“It’s not the same thing!”

Brad concedes with a long suffering sigh. “Fine,” he says, “if we took you on a hunting trip you would either scare the prey away or go all Snow White on me and try to save them anyway.”

That’s precisely why Patrice has been hesitant to take Brad up on his offer. That and, well- he has met Brad’s family before of course, but a week with his parents and siblings - a hunting trip with his dad and brother - felt too intimate, more than what Patrice was entitled to.

On the other end of the line Brad tells him he has gotta go, hangs up with a “love you” before Patrice has the chance to respond.

The words echo in the room for a moment before they die down. He needs to turn the A/C down because it feels too cold all of a sudden, too quiet. He rubs at his arms for warmth, navigates to his messages.

He texts Brad he loves him too since he didn't get the chance before they hung up. Brad sends an emoji blowing a kiss in return, almost immediately.

Patrice spins the phone in his hand - once, twice - but it doesn't buzz again. It’s the natural stopping point of the conversation. Brad probably has stuff to do. Patrice needs to start getting ready for dinner with his childhood friends as well.

On the tree the bird has hopped up to a higher branch, her gaze still laser focused on the far side of the yard, and his iPad is lying on the couch to his left.

Patrice crosses the few steps to it, suddenly sure of what he needs to do. He perches on the armrest with it balanced on his lap, unlocks the screen, and takes a deep breath.

“Quebec flights to Halifax” he types into Google quickly, before he can stop himself.

It has been two years. It has been far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [article](https://www.bostonglobe.com/sports/bruins/2016/12/26/bergeron-marchand-mismatched-but-very-effective-pairing/gWwWsuDI0CTq8XsJ7m9tjP/story.html) ( _it's shipping when I do it and journalism when boston sports media does...._ ) also see [here](https://michael-carricks.tumblr.com/post/175475772876/and-your-fish-lead-a-life-of-sin-do-they-ive) for headcannons of another fic someone needs to make write.
> 
> An actual excerpt from the said article if you are too lazy to click:  
> “Not yet,” Marchand said with a smile. “I’ve talked to him about it a few times. I don’t know if he’ll do it. But I’ll push it.”
> 
> Bergeron has a lake house retreat in Quebec. He enjoys swimming and fishing with his family. He has yet to take up arms in search of his dinner.
> 
> “I would go,” Bergeron said of joining his linemate on a hunt. “But I wouldn’t shoot any animals. I would just go there and hang out with him.”


	9. fluff + things you said when we were the happiest that we were

In his dream they are playing soccer against aliens and Brad gets incinerated in front of his eyes when he tries to lick one of them.

He wakes up on the acute note of loss, helpless against the finality of it when he would give everything in his power to have Brad back. 

“Bergy?” Brad says and Patrice almost chokes up at the sound of his voice. He takes in a breath, takes in his surroundings, exhales. Brad is safe and alive and…from the looks of it already tucking himself into the bed next to Patrice.

Brad draws him in and Patrice goes without resistance. The feeling of skin on skin comes all at once - unexpected and warm like a spring shower. He lets Brad arrange the two of them until they are half sitting half lying down with Patrice’s head on Brad’s chest. The nightmare dissipates into the sunlight a little more with every beat of Brad’s heart against his ear.

They went for a run on the beach at dawn that somehow ended up with both of them in the pastel morning sea, clothes and all, splashing and laughing like kids. Now it’s 1pm and it’s too hot to do anything but lie in bed and take a well deserved nap.

Or get riled up over the latest World Cup fixture.

“Look at this,” Brad says, one hand playing with Patrice’s hair and the other pointing at the TV.

There is a game on - no wonder his nightmare - and the camera is showing a slow motion replay of someone falling to the ground and rolling in pain at the slightest shove from someone in opposing colors as if he is a soap opera detective who has been shot.

“That’s a game ejection that” Brad continues, “he is bringing shame to his house his country and his cow. He should be ashamed.”

“You should call FIFA and complain,” Patrice drawls onto Brad’s skin. His eyes track the guy with mild interest.

“Maybe I will,” Brad says, serious and grumpy. It’s funny how just two weeks ago it was all ‘how can a sport humanly be more boring than baseball Bergy?’ and ‘thanks but I’d rather watch the paint dry Bergy’.

Outside, the sea is yawning and stretching under the afternoon sun like a lazy cat and here in the room Brad’s righteous anger is a song whispered to Patrice’s ear along with the strong rhythmic beat of Brad’s heart. A smile tugs at Patrice's lips even as sleep claims him again and his last conscious thought is how lucky he is to be here in Brad’s arms, safe and warm and perfectly happy.


	10. fluff + things you said after you kissed me

Krej nudges his arm and Patrice turns, first to him and then following the direction of Krej’s nod, towards Brad.

Brad watches Patrice's face melt into a grin from where he is leaning against the car, hands in his pocket. Even in the badly lit parking lot the way his eyes light up when he recognizes Brad is unmistakable as is the spring that finds its way into his step never mind that it’s 2 am at night.

His teammates, the ones that are ahead of Patrice, greet him on the way. Zee gives him a warm pat on the arm and asks how his knee is doing. Torey mutters about how his wife never comes to pick him up. Jake and Charlie flash him two shit eating grins but don’t chirp, too aware of their rookie status to dare.

Brad waves at them and returns the greetings. They have been gone for a week and he has missed his teammates - every single one of them - but it all dissolves into thin air when Patrice reaches him.

He stops in front of Brad, close enough to feel his breath. Brad takes in the strong lines of Patrice's shoulders under his heavy winter jacket, his beard that is somehow even more gorgeous now than it was when he left, the tip of his nose already red with the cold.

“Hi,” he says softly with his hand tugging at the lapels of Patrice’s coat, wanting him even closer.

Never one who needs to be told twice, Patrice closes the distance between them and brings their lips together, his face lit up with a soft smile.

Warmth rushes over Brad. He lets himself be swept in, relishes in it, the world narrowed down to Patrice’s scent, Patrice’s hand curling up against his neck, Patrice’s breath against his skin - _Patrice_.

He hears Rick say “gross” as he passes by as if filtered through glass, barely has enough presence of mind to flip him off.

Patrice looks at him when they draw apart, his face lit up with a soft smile. There is a bit of white caught against his beanie - a snowflake, Brad realizes slowly - as another lands on his nose. Patrice’s hand is still on his cheek, his thumb caressing Brad’s jawline back and forth.

“Hey.” Patrice says.

Brad didn’t know and - would never admit - that such a simple word could sound so much like music.


	11. angst + truth & lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are a little drunk and more than a little too old to be playing truth or dare.

“Truth.”

Briefly, the corners of Krej’s lips quirk down in disappointment; that is not the answer he expected. He has a point: what embarrassing or unfortunate truth, what past mistake can you hope to uncover when it is Patrice Bergeron you are talking to, role model and some may say, an actual saint.

Krej plays with the empty shot glass on the wooden table, sliding it back and forth between his hands, taking his time, thinking.

Then he stops, eyes sharp like a predator’s in that moment before it pounces on unsuspecting prey.

“Do you regret kissing Brad when we won the Cup?”

*

The world stops in its orbit. A light flickers. A patron laughs at the bar, inebriated and the sound he makes barely human.

It’s been so long since Brad thought about it (and that’s a lie anyway). They are young and they are drunk and Patrice is right there next to him, just as gone and grinning like a maniac.

Patrice doesn’t look at him, too busy returning Krej’s steely gaze. If he is surprised by the question he doesn’t show it.

Patrice’s hair is tousled, even his eyes seem to be laughing and it’s so easy to wrap an arm around his middle and pull him in. His lips are soft and there is a beat when he is too surprised to do much of anything but then it passes and he kisses Brad back just as fiercely.

He tastes like alcohol and the cigarettes he tried and failed to smoke.

“The question should be ‘do you regret being kissed _by_ Brad?’ but- every day,” he says without missing a beat, voice firm if the shake of his head is fond. “He is a _terrible_ kisser.”

And there is a call, a couple of days later, a stern reminder to refrain from activities that would tarnish the team’s image.

 _What, like existing?_ Brad huffs out; they always said he was too cheeky for his own good, but then they trade Tyler a couple of years later and he understands. He stops.

“Lies. I am an incredible kisser” he says. He looks from Krej to Patrice to the rest of the group. “And willing to demonstrate if you want.”

That gets them. They laugh. Patrice shakes his head around a smile. Quaider says they believe him thank you very much and Torey turns the bottle again.

They know Brad means what he says and they know better too.


	12. fluff + i just can't help it when you look at me like that

You would think it’s different now that they are actually dating. You would think all the times Brad walked into pools and the Charles river and multiple street lights could be explained by pining, the way the heart aches for something it wants more than anything else in the world but knows it can’t have.

You would be wrong.

They are going furniture shopping today, obviously under the pretense that it’s for Brad’s apartment and Patrice is just there to give a second opinion. A thoughtful bro coming to his bro’s help in his time of need (because as Patrice explained to countless merchants over the last year Brad’s own sense can’t be trusted in these matters. Brad dutifully shook his head every time, protesting the statement without really offering much protest. That makes sense to them–the merchants. Like obviously, Brad Marchand can’t be trusted to buy a lamp alone and obviously Patrice Bergeron is the Wise One you bring along for all sorts of advice. Not for one second did anyone catch onto their nefarious agenda of building a life together. Brad and Patrice are more than fine with that.)

Anyway, Patrice has a friend he wants to meet for coffee in the morning and they decide to meet up in the lobby of Brad’s (but really their) apartment building. Patrice texts him when he is close by. Brad grabs his coat, promises Wilson they will be back soon, and heads downstairs.

That’s when he sees Patrice.

Patrice is on the sidewalk opposite the street, walking towards the building with his hands buried in his pockets. He looks radiant in the sun with his trenchcoat and impeccable hair. In another lifetime he is a model or a poet who speaks so beautifully of the melancholy matters of the soul. In all lifetimes he is Brad’s, Brad will let you know. It took him long enough to find his way to Patrice, he hurt and bled so much along the way, and now he has no intention of ever giving it up in any lifetimes, come hell or high water.

Brad starts walking towards the exit of the building. Patrice, now close enough, notices him. He isn’t aware of what he is doing, but from across the street his face melts into a smile. Brad doesn’t even know how to describe it–like Brad is his favorite person in the world.

Because see, Patrice isn’t a man of many words. Where to Brad any second he isn’t gushing about how perfect and wonderful Patrice is, is a second wasted, that’s not how it works for Pat. But then every once in a while he looks at Brad like this–looks at Brad the way you look at the night sky on a cloudless night when you manage to get away from the city and it’s more beautiful a thing than anything else you have seen. Breathtaking even if you don’t understand it fully and you never will (but that’s alright too.) He looks at Brad with warmth and pride and love that neither knows nor needs words and–

There goes Brad walking into pools and River Charles and now a poor glass wall.

There is a thud and a crack as his sizable forehead and the glass wall introduce themselves to the other and he falls back on his bum on the impact. Patrice appears by his side in a flash, his wonderful smile now long gone.

“Christ,” he says crouching down and with resignation, “not this again.”

Brad very much so agrees. He takes no pleasure from the pain radiating from his forehead or the ringing in his ears or the bill the building management will charge him for replacing the glass wall he managed to crack. But it’s also hardly his fault now is it, when Patrice is just as much to blame.

“I just can’t help it when you look at me like that,” he says, nursing his wounded ego (contrary to popular belief, Brad does get embarrassed. It just takes a lot. Like running into a glass wall, or a street lamp, or the River Charles) and in all likelihood mild concussion.

Patrice helps him to his feet, keeps a strong arm under his shoulder just in case. He doesn’t even argue it, having watched Brad walk into ditches and pools and one time a very unhappy Tim Thomas. It’s kind of a crime actually, how long it took him to figure things out with Brad given–this.

And he is working on it. He has been working on it for a while, worried for Brad’s well being–working on not looking at Brad in a way that makes him immediately lose his head or any awareness of his surroundings. But some kinds of love you just can’t mute no matter how hard you try.

He sighs.

“As long as you remember it’s your turn to come up with a suitable explanation to offer Cassidy for why there is a giant bruise on your forehead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh i like this one


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for implied/referenced character death

Brad is there one day and in the next he is gone. Patrice looks all over for him, because surely he can’t _just_ be gone–surely he must be _somewhere_.

He looks for him on the streets, as if, if he walks long enough it’s only a matter of time before Brad will turn a corner and greet him with that huge dorky grin on his face. Or maybe one of the nondescript faces of nondescript strangers he keeps brushing shoulders with will snap into focus and Patrice will be shake his head at himself for how long it took him to recognize his soulmate.

(Patrice didn’t believe in soulmates before he met Brad. He can’t remember what that was like anymore–-a life that didn’t have a this talented mouthy ridiculous winger in it. He wishes sometimes that he could; he’s pretty sure it didn’t hurt like this back then.)

He tries calling. Brad always lives on his phone so Patrice calls him there, he could tell you the number backwards while hanging upside down. He gets the voice mail and later, not even that. He calls his name in their apartment, quietly, like the way he used to do when he got home late from a road trip and didn’t want to wake him if he was asleep. Though that was hardly necessary; Brad was never asleep (until one day, he was). He shouts his name into the night from the roof of their apartment, screams and rages until his voice is gone. He scares some seagulls. Brad doesn’t reply back. He never could stay mad at Brad for very long though–he offers an apology before he heads back in, shaking and half frozen.

He looks for him under the pillows and the covers they lay in, where Brad would envelop him arm and leg, as if he was drowning and Patrice was a life buoy. He checks in the cupboards where Brad would reach on tiptoe on mornings when he made them breakfast. The sugar and the flour are there alright (one time breakfast somehow turns into a flour war and the entire kitchen as well as every inch of their bodies ends up covered in white. It’s a nightmare to clean up. Brad checks his snow white hair on his front camera and says with a grin you are so lucky I will look so handsome even when I’m old. Patrice wants to remind him this now, how it’s quite impolite to break promises.)

He checks the ice, that was after all where they live(d). It would make sense if that’s Brad was all along. He almost thinks he found him too, among the whispers and echoes of cellies etched into the walls. Brad crashing into his arms at full speed. Patrice never said anything obviously, but he used to be so jealous when someone else got to Brad before he could after they scored a goal.

In the end he finds him in the setting sun. Brad looks radiant as always, awash now in the dying light. He smiles when he sees Patrice. There is a peace to it, he used to say, with eyes closed and a quiet smile playing on his lips. Though even that didn’t save the poor sunset from Brad picking a fight with it. One day, he was running a fever again and Patrice found him in their balcony shouting. _Listen sure you are beautiful but if you think you have anything over Bergy you and I won’t get along buddy. So I would pick my words carefully if I were you,_ he was saying. It had taken Patrice a while to figure out just who he was fighting with and then he’d burst into laughter even as tears were streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t know what he did to be loved so deeply and with such abandon, and he didn’t know what he did that it was going to be taken away so soon from him.

But it’s alright now, because he’s found Brad again. Patrice takes the hand being offered to him, says “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He means to sound harsher, admonishing, but Brad always had this way of getting under his skin and he’s spent so long, looking.

“I know,” Brad says, “I am sorry ange.”

“You must promise never to leave to again.”

Brad takes Patrice’s hand to his lips, presses a kiss on his knuckles, and oh Patrice has missed this. Patrice has missed him so much.

 _Never_ , Brad says just as the last of the light disappears over the horizon.


	14. fluff + brad has turned into a cat

Patrice woke up with a weight on his chest from knowing that no one had heard from his linemate, his friend, for over 24 hours - “we are friends and nothing more,” he had said once, watched Brad’s face shatter - from dark places he would not let his mind wander to.

Well, that, and from the cat sitting on his chest. 

He was an ugly thing, a small tabby with hazel eyes. He had showed up at his door last night cold and dirty and would not leave, looked and called at Patrice like Patrice was the only one who could save him, sent Patrice looking for an emergency vet at 9pm. He was also a very vocal cat- he had screamed and yelled at Patrice the entire time he was trying to talk to the police and later leave a voicemail in Brad’s phone just in case, even though he had just been fed.

Now though he was quiet, just sitting on Patrice’s chest in a loaf, looking him right in the eye, his expression - did cats even have expressions? - hard to read. Patrice scratched at his chin; the cat immediately started purring and turned his head up to give Patrice a better angle. Guess Patrice had a cat now, whether he wanted it or not.

“You look-” Patrice started. 

Brad could be dead in a ditch by now, frozen and lifeless somewhere in the frigid cold. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat, fighting back tears. No. He knew Brad- Brad was petty and stubborn and never gave up without a fight. Not unlike this cat, in fact. They would find him. He’d be fine.

Patrice opened his eyes. The cat was now rubbing his head against Patrice’s chin.

“You look like a Marchy,” he told the cat. “Yes, that’s what your name will be.”


	15. h/c + will you still be here when i wake up?

Of everything Patrice Bergeron is known for, giving up has never been one of them. He doesn’t give up on games, he doesn’t give up on his friends–-Brad’s throat constricts a little every time he thinks about how Patrice has never given up on _him_ -–and in this moment, in this quiet hospital room, he is not giving up on staying awake with a zeal that would make any five-year old trying to stay up past his bedtime proud.

Outside, the world is all but plunged into darkness. Rain patters softly against the glass windows and street lights gleam like eerie, fuzzy orbs in the half-light and the fog. Patrice’s eyelids are drooping; his head almost falls forward to his chest until he catches himself in the last minute and straightens with a small shake of his head.

“You should sleep ange,” Brad says softly with a smile, gives the hand he is holding a nudge to emphasize his point. He has spent the last three hours trying to let go of the icy terror that clamped on his chest when he got the phone call–-watching the even rise and fall of Patrice’s chest, holding his hand, telling himself _he is fine he is fine he is fine_.

He would shout at Patrice for how much he scared him but for one, who shouts at God, and for two who shouts at God for jumping in front of a car and saving a kid’s life.

It’s quite unfortunate really but it’s alright because Patrice is fine. He is fine. And it’s a good thing because kid or no kid Brad would have had to murder him otherwise.

He is just…a little hopped off on painkillers right now which is always an experience.

Patrice peels his eyes from the TV now and looks at him, considering this proposition with the gravity of a general debating whether to send his troops into the battle. He blinks once, slowly, and swallows. If they were in a cartoon Brad would be able to see the wheels spinning in Patrice’s head just about now.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks after a lengthy deliberation.

“Well I would love to but you see I hear Japan is lovely this time of the year, so I think I might hop on over there real quick.” Brad replies with a grin, has to try very hard to keep his voice from breaking. It’s been such a long day. He can already feel tears stinging against his eyes. 

And as it turns out, he is hardly the only one.

“Oh,” Patrice says. His lower lip is trembling. He takes the hand previously tucked safely in Brads’ - the hand not in a cast - and plays with the edge of the blanket. “Of course. I-–I heard it’s lovely too.” He smiles, and if Brad had a thousand hearts the thousand of them would break right now at the sight. “We will catch up when–-if–-you return.”

Brad raises his right hand. He regrets ever attempting the joke.

“Look,” he says, showing Patrice his ring, “of course I will–”

“You are going to Japan with your husband,” Patrice cuts him off before Brad can finish, a vast amount of sorrow and understanding in his voice. “I should have never asked in the first place.”

Brad hates this man. Hates how much Patrice wants the very best for Brad even as his own heart is breaking and hates how he himself caused Patrice even more pain than that goddamned Toyota, however inadvertently.

And Brad–-Brad is the one who is supposed to be the insecure party in their relationship; he is the one who struggled with feeling he would never be good enough for Patrice in their early years, almost let it destroy what they had. Patrice–-how dare he think there is anywhere in the world, anyone Brad would rather be with right now, but also just in general. Fuck, he is pretty sure he would claw and punch and lick anyone who told him he needed to leave right now.

“You are my husband you idiot.” He says quickly, trying to convey as much of that as possible while keeping his anger in check. “I married you and of course I will be here. It was a joke Bergy; you could sleep for a hundred years, you could decide you wanted to live in Edmonton and I would be still be right there by your side. Though please don’t do either of those things.”

Patrice takes a moment to process the information, before he rewards Brad with a small smile. A tear escapes from the well building in his eyes and rolls down his cheek. Brad wipes it away with his thumb.

“But what about Japan?” Patrice still asks cautiously.

“Nobody is going to Japan. Fuck Japan.”

That Patrice seems to find hilarious. He bursts into giggles which soon infects Brad too and they sit there in a previously quiet hospital room in Quebec city, laughing even as tears stream down their face, from a cocktail of drugs in one case, and relief chasing fear chasing exhaustion in the other.

“Okay,” Patrice declares eventually once they have calmed down. He settles further into his pillows and yawns. “I will sleep now. And I will be here when I wake up too.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Brad replies back with a smile.

He really, truly hates this man.


End file.
